


Bloody Vengeance

by MrsAlwaysWrite



Series: Vikings one-shots [2]
Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Blood and Torture, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 12:28:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29933430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsAlwaysWrite/pseuds/MrsAlwaysWrite
Summary: Reader wants vengeance and knows what Heathen Prince can help her.
Relationships: Ivar (Vikings)/Reader, Ivar (Vikings)/You
Series: Vikings one-shots [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2201412
Kudos: 12





	Bloody Vengeance

"Prince Ivar, there is someone who wishes to speak with you."

The youngest Ragnarsson looked up from the dagger he was sharpening. The Viking before him was one of his own, supposed to be guarding the entrance to the great hall of York. It had been a good fight yesterday, especially when all of his plans came to fruition in taking the city. The way his man had made his declaration, it was obvious the Viking only came to Ivar out of obligation, meaning whomever was seeking an audience was no one of importance. Though, it was interesting that this petitioner requested him personally as his two elder brothers also reclined nearby at a table, nibbling away at the food on it. 

"Who is it?" He drawled, spinning the blade in his hand. 

"It is a Saxon woman who speaks our language." 

That intrigued the bloodthirsty prince. His eyes jumped back up to his man for a moment before glancing at his brothers. Even from where he sat, he could see the curiosity on their faces. There were only a few in England who knew their language, and none were ever a woman. Without hesitation he commanded, "bring her to me."

His man bowed his head before turning and retreating back towards the entrance.

"What do you think she wants?" Hvitserk asked from where he reclined, eyes towards the entrance as if that would provide the answer he sought. 

Ubbe spoke first. "The better question is why did she ask for Ivar specifically?" 

"Because I am more important." Ivar retorted without even looking at his two brothers. He leaned back in his chair, idly spinning his dagger as he thought. Perhaps this city of York would yield more interests than just a stronghold. 

*****

Several minutes later, you were led before three of the most feared men in all of England. You were insane for asking for this meeting. Beyond insane. You planned on attempting to make a deal with the devil incarnate. But from what you had heard, if anyone understood revenge, it was the sons of Ragnar Lothbrok. 

Specifically, Ivar the Boneless. 

Their eyes slid over your body like oil as you approached, leaving you feeling dirty and tainted without them even touching you. These conquering heathens had no decency. As if unbothered by the obvious lustful gazes, you kept your head up, eyes straight ahead and without fear. Though no one else knew you clasped your hands before you as to not betray the way they shook with trepidation. 

Without stopping, when the Heathen guard who led you in did, you walked the few extra steps to stand before Ivar. For a brief moment, you thought you saw shock cross his face; for through your movements you made known, you knew specifically who he was, your gaze never wavering to his brothers or the other Heathens scattered in the room.

The two of you stared at one another for an excruciatingly long minute, his turbulent and piercing, blue eyes refusing to look away, demanding for you to relent and look away first. Though your knees threatened to falter beneath you, you met his gaze head-on, not letting him intimidate you yet. To your surprise, you thought you witnessed a corner of his mouth turn up in a barely-there smirk, but the image vanished just as soon as you thought you imagined it. 

"How come you know our language?" One of the brothers asked in their native tongue, running a hand over his beard. He eyed you like you were a newly crafted tool, interesting but easily discarded if no longer serving a purpose. 

You glanced over at the one who spoke, curious his name but not willing to ask. Continuing to speak in their language, the words felt coarse on your tongue but you had excellent tutors so the words poured from your mouth with ease. "I learned it while being a ward at the court of King Ecbert."

The dark-haired Prince's eyebrows furrowed as he continued to eye you. His gaze shifted from your eyes to scanning your body as if to jog his memory. "I recognize your face."

"I would frequently watch you and Prince Alfred play chess."

"Mmm….so what do you want, Christian?" He sneered the title like it was a curse word, leaning back in his chair as if a throne. "Why did you ask for me? Are we to play chess?"

That earned a chuckle from those nearby. He smirked down at you, pleased by his quip and his attempt to demean you. 

"If you want, my Prince, but I doubt you will find me a worthy enough opponent." You took a deep breath before continuing. "I came to ask two favors of you…."

"You are in no position to be asking for favors! Your city is overtaken, you are a slave no matter your birthright! Why would I care about your favors?" Ivar demanded, standing up and stepping closer with all the feel of a venomous snake ready to strike. 

You refused to allow him to intimidate you, even if the sinister look on his face made you internally quake. Seeing him now only solidified all the horrifying stories you had heard, eclipsing your memories of him as a young man in King Ecbert's court. Someone who had intrigued you at the time, causing you to pursue knowledge of his language even after he left England's shores, in foolish hopes you may one day see him again. Yet before you now was the menacing, bloodthirsty warrior prince you had heard tales of that were enough to freeze one's blood….and you believed them. 

"Come on, brother. Let us hear her out." The other brother with the kind face stated, eating an apple. "I am curious now." When he caught your eye, he gave you a flirtatious wink. 

Ivar rolled his eyes and then gestured for you to continue with unconcealed contempt. 

"Thank you, my Prince." You started, giving the dark-haired prince your undivided attention once again. "In exchange for my favors, I will forfeit my life to you to do with as you please, be that a slave or kill me in whatever way most entertains you. I will not argue or fight back. I will graciously accept your choice."

"I could do that already, Christian." Ivar interrupted with a sneer. "Or have you forgotten who decimated your army yesterday and bathes in the blood of your people."

"Brother…." The bearded brother groaned. He tapped once on the table with his hand, giving his youngest brother a pointed look. 

His upper lip raised in a snarl at his brother before turning to you again, "Speak! I grow weary of your presence."

You could not help but flinch as he yelled, his voice echoing off the stone walls of the once pristine great hall. Swallowing thickly, you pushed onward. At this point you had nothing left to lose. "There is a monastery not far from here, it is hidden well for it holds many sacred treasures for my people."

"So?"

"I can show you where it is located."

He openly scoffed, disdain leaching into his voice. "Why do I care? We have taken York. I can send my own men out scouting to find it. Why do I need you?"

"You speak truth. Though I can show you the hidden passageways into the monastery."

"Why would you tell us this?" The brother who winked at you asked, not in a condescending manner but what seemed to stem from curiosity. 

This was it. For so long you had harbored this…. this secret revenge. You had spent many nights awake, plotting how you would fulfil your unspoken vow. When the heathens took York, instead of being terrified, you saw an opportunity. Especially when you glimpsed Ivar. Now admitting it out loud, it almost felt surreal. 

You glanced over at the flaxen-haired brother for a moment but returned your gaze to Ivar. When you finally spoke, your voice was quiet but not from fear. No, it was from barely suppressed rage you finally allowed to escape from your chest where it had festered for too long. "My first favor is, if I tell you of this place, show you how to enter without being seen…. I want you to burn the monastery to the ground."

Silence hung in the room for a long moment, all eyes from the three brothers and others scattered about were glued to you as they absorbed your sharp words and harsh tone. Without waiting, you continued to lay out your favors…. your demands. 

"My second favor is that you swear to me on your gods and your arm ring that Bishop Cerdic will die a slow and painful death. I don't care how he does, just that he dies screaming for the mercy you will never give him."

Ivar tilted his head to the side, staring as if seeing you for the first time. "That is not a very Christian thing to ask for."

"I never said I was a good Christian." 

"Mmm….and what would your God think of your favors?"

"Truthfully, I don't care."

Ivar moved closer; the pounding of his crutch echoed with each step until he hovered over you. You could feel his breath on your face as he pierced you with his eyes. It felt like being confronted by an apex predator, and you were chained with no means of escape. Heat radiated off his body, warming you in more than one way. Death danced in his eyes but instead causing you fear, it excited you. 

"Why?"

You blinked rapidly, surprised and brought out of your inner thoughts by his question. "I beg your pardon?"

"Why do you want us to kill your bishop and destroy the monastery?"

"You are Northmen, do you need an excuse?"

He smirked, tracing a single finger along your cheek and down your neck. An involuntary shiver ran down your spine at the feeling of his unusually gentle touch. "I am intrigued. I accept your offer and favors. You will be my personal thrall, no other may touch you."

"Thank you, my Prince."

"Tomorrow you will show us where this monastery is." He stated as if speaking to you alone. His thumb hesitated over your pulse point for a second making your heartbeat accelerate. His lips twitched in a barely-suppressed smirk. Abruptly, he released you and took a step back. "Leave us now."

After a proper curtsy upheld by your station, you started towards the exit, feigning ignorance to the many pairs of eyes on you. 

"Thrall!"

You paused at Ivar's call. Curious as to what he could want now, you turned around to meet his intense gaze, sending heat down your spine even from across the great hall. 

"Do you wish to be there when we attack the monastery and kill your bishop?" He asked, sitting down and with his dagger out, spinning it casually in his hand. 

"Nothing would bring me greater pleasure, my Prince."

He easily matched your shark-like smile and in that moment, you knew you had made the right choice to seek him out. Your long-coveted revenge would finally be appeased. 

*****

You stood alone in the courtyard of what had once been a simple but beautiful monastery. Now flames greedily consumed everything except for the stone walls. Bodies of the helpless monks lay scattered about, their blood painting the dirt and stone beneath them. A few hung from rafters, their bodies still twitching as life drained from them and spilled on the ground below. 

You wondered if this was what hell looked like- unrelenting fire, excruciating screams of the damned, the taste of iron and copper and ash drenched in the very air that now threatened to suffocate you. 

Through the carnage you stood unwavering, even surprising yourself. Hate and revenge kept you strong in the face of so much destruction and annihilation, allowing you to witness the slow death of the man you swore to kill one day. To others, the bishop was a man of God, someone to admire and aspire to be like. To you, he caused the death of the one person you cared most about in this world. 

Standing on the other side of the courtyard, you watched the bishop hang from a cross as some of the Northmen took turns shooting arrows at him, but always making sure it never hit anything vital. His screams and cries for mercy reverberated in your ears. 

Behind you came the distinct sound of a slow walk, led by the pounding of a crutch hitting the ground. You knew who it was without turning around, there was only one man whose gait was so distinctive. As he slowly drew closer, the hairs on the back of your neck stood up. So far there had been no malice, no concern for your personal safety, but that does not keep the field mouse from fearing the elusive snake. His body heat radiated across your back as he stopped just behind you. Each breath he released made your hair flutter, he stood so close. 

After several silent moments, you finally spoke, the weight of your revenge lifted. "Thank you, my Prince." 

He made no sound to accept your thanks, not even a grunt of acknowledgement. To your astonishment, one of his leather-bound hands brushed your loose hair over your shoulder, exposing your neck to him. You held perfectly still, never removing your eyes from the bishop even though all your senses felt inflamed by his touch alone. The prince's fingers traced patterns over your exposed skin, creating goosebumps in the wake. 

"Tell me…. why?"

"Why what?" You knew what he was getting at. 

Harshly, he wrapped a hand around your throat, pulling you against him until not even air could squeeze between your pressed bodies. "Do not play coy with me. You will answer my question."

"My….my father is a powerful lord with great wealth, land and influence in England." You paused, the words, the truth, sticking to your throat, almost suffocating you even more than the Heathen's tight grip on your throat or the death-saturated air. "He is not a good man though. He uses his family, the women folk to…."

The rough hand around your throat loosened to a faint touch as your words sputtered out. After a second, his thumb gently rubbed along the column of your throat as if to coax the words out. 

"My father hates the fairer sex; I am not even sure he knows why." You continued, loathing and pain dripping from each word. "So, he used my mother to take his frustrations out on. On more than one occasion, she almost died from his abuse. But he was powerful so no one could stop him. Finally, my mother became desperate enough, she decided to leave. Under the cover of night, she brought myself and a couple servants to this very monastery to seek sanctuary. She begged the bishop to grant her a divorce for fear of her life and mine since he recently started to turn his rage onto me also. But he refused. The bishop said a wife was a servant to her husband in all things, for the Bible commands her to respect him as he is the head of the household. He said God would give her the strength to endure her trials."

A single tear slipped down your cheek as you remembered everything. 

"We were forced to return to my father. In his fury, he beheaded the servants who had come with us, declaring them traitors for helping my mother and I to leave him. He locked me in my room without food for three days and during that time…. he killed my mother, his wife."

"How did you escape him?" Ivar whispered into your ear. His hand, no longer a cage holding you to him, but an enticement, still caressing the column of your throat with something akin to tenderness. 

For the first time in years, if not your life, safety eased your mind. Which was so wrong, something you would certainly go to hell for if the priests spoke truth. Surrounded by fire and carnage, all due to you and now practically in the arms of a blue-eyed devil, you should be praying and repenting. Yet there was a lightness in your chest, a sense of freedom even though bound for life to a bloodthirsty heathen prince. You struggled to make sense of the conflicting thoughts. 

"He, um, he betrothed me to another lord here in York…. so, I moved here several months ago."

"Do…. did you care for your…. betrothed?"

You chuckled, turning your head slightly to meet his fierce gaze, only to find your faces a hands-width away from each other. "No, he was an old, ugly man who snorted like a pig when he breathed."

An arrogant smile curved his lips, making your heart flutter. "Ah, I think I remember him. My brother, Hvitserk, sliced his belly open. Does that please you?"

You shrugged. You knew it should bother you, the mention of the gruesome death of your betrothed, but you felt nothing. Instead you were beguiled by the man who held your life in the palm of his hand. Who you sold your soul to for vengeance otherwise unattainable. Your faces so close, you could taste his breath on your tongue. You could not help but be in awe of his savage beauty, with the most expressive and vivid eyes you had ever seen before. 

"What will become of me now?" The question slipped from your lips before you realized it. "You have fulfilled my favors, my life is forfeit."

Slowly, as if to gage your response, he leaned closer to rub his nose along yours. Seeing that you did not pull away, he then slid his nose to nuzzle your temple. Your breath hitched at the feeling it invoked. Butterflies danced in your belly. Unconsciously, your hand reached out to grip his arm that now wrapped around your waist, either to keep you pinned to him or to steady you, it did not matter. The thought of him letting you go brought anguish to your yearning heart. 

"You are mine. No one will lay a hand on you or harm you again. You will come with me." He growled against your temple, searing the words into your mind. "Does that please you?"

"Why are you being so good to me?"

He pressed his lips to your skin, letting the touch linger. Finally, he answered, his voice soft like he divulged a great secret for only you to hear. "I like your spirit, the fire that burns inside of you. It calls to me."

You could not help as you tilted your neck to the side, allowing him access to more skin. If the rumble in his chest and the way his grip tightened slightly on you, he greatly approved of your actions. His lips trailed down from your temple to your neck, both to reassure and to claim you.

"And then what?" You asked breathlessly, your thoughts hazy under his branding touch. 

"Only the gods know." He whispered. After a sharp bite to your neck that made you squeak, he released you and moved to fully face you. "Come."

You looked back over at the bishop once more. Now seeing his dead form, it was the lid on the coffin you needed. Years of hungering for revenge finally sated. You could move on. 

Without a word, you turned away from the grisly sight and took the offered hand of the Heathen prince next to you. The two of you walked out of the courtyard and towards his chariot, hand in hand. 

"How far away is your father's estate?"

You glanced at him but his face remained expressionless. "Perhaps a three-day journey if the weather is pleasant."

He hummed with a single nod of his head. Once the two of you reached the chariot, you took your spot by his side as he sat. He called out to Hvitserk that they would leave this place soon. His brother, covered in blood and grinning like a madman, raised his sword in acknowledgement before starting to give out orders. You stood there, watching the organized mayhem of the Northmen and the fires still engulfing the monastery. 

"Your father has great wealth, you said." Ivar leaned forward on his seat to watch you with a smirk on his face. 

"Yes."

"Three days is not too far. Perhaps we shall pay him a visit, mmm?" With a devious wink, he clicked his tongue and gathered the reins. The chariot jolted forward as the horse began trotting away from the destruction. 

Without a second thought, you leaned over and pressed a kiss to his cheek. His answering smile sent the butterflies in your stomach a flurry. He called out to his horse, picking up speed and moving faster through the dirt path in the surrounding forest. Silently, you stood next to the man whose name alone created panic and fear in all of England. But to you, all you could taste was freedom. 

  
  



End file.
